


Tell Me Something Good

by deinvati



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Christmas Eve, Holiday Fic Exchange, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Secret Saito 2018, Secret Saito Gift Exchange, Trapped In A Closet, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 09:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17221229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati
Summary: Eames didn’t kiss Arthur first.  Eames would forget some of the details someday, he was sure, but one thing was certain.  Arthur kissed him.Or, how Arthur pulling a gun on Eames (with the safety off), a few saved voicemails, a Machete, a tiger, and some VHS tapes all combine to make a perfect Christmas memory.





	Tell Me Something Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarkSilverWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkSilverWings/gifts).



> Prompt: Voice
> 
> I don’t know how exactly I managed to get the same prompt multiple times in the space of three days, but I am lazy and am combining all of them into this one fic. Thank you to my cheer readers and especially to [sugarybowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarybowl/pseuds/sugarybowl) for the beta, and Happy Holidays to all of you!

Arthur and Eames' favorite holiday memory started the same way.

The phone next to his elbow buzzed and Arthur tore himself away from his computer screen.

_Incoming Call: Eames_

He jerked his head around to see Eames holding his own phone to his ear, waiting for Arthur. 'Pick up!' he mouthed, pointing, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

He answered, not breaking eye contact. "What is it, Eames?"

"Oh, good, I caught you!" the handsome bastard said with a cocky grin. "I was beginning to think you were just letting all my calls go to voicemail on purpose."

Arthur frowned at him. "I've got a layout to mock up and an extractor who is getting paid 15% too much for what he's actually doing. What do you want," he said, stressing each word to show how very patient he was being. He had a job to do, damn it. It was probably  _more_  professional to let Eames' calls go to voicemail. And fuck that guy anyway, and his stupid lips, and his stupid unbuttoned collar, and his stupid—

"I wanted to know if you have the name of a contact at the mark's bank, darling, and also what you want for your lunch order."

His stupid  _voice_. Arthur swallowed and spun back to his computer, hating how Eames affected him every time, and how he couldn't let it go. He hung up the phone and poked at the keys, digging through the meticulously organized files. He was more than willing to find the info Eames needed, but he wasn't willing to have that British rumble so close to his ear while he did it.

Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin as Eames leaned over his shoulder and purred his name.

"Jesus, Eames," Arthur said, putting space between them and hitting print at the same time. Eames still had the phone to his ear even though Arthur had ended the call. He retreated to the printer and thrust the paper at Eames. "Next time just walk over like a normal human being."

Eames just grinned at him and accepted the paper with a cheery, "Ta," before drifting back to his own space, deep in the document Arthur had printed.

Arthur put his earbuds in and turned his music up, a steady drumbeat forcing out thoughts of sloping trapezius muscles and thick thighs as he worked the files and scanned security footage. When he looked up again, the warehouse was empty except for him, and Arthur felt an odd stab of loneliness.

He missed the old days where Cobb had been brooding noisily on every job, and Eames didn't take up so much space in his head. Now that Cobb was out, retired and raising his children, Arthur and Eames seemed to work in the same circles more often. Or rather they were the circle and other players just wandered in and out of it. But Eames, he seemed to fill whatever room he occupied with his loudness and his laughter and his  _presence_ , and Arthur's head sank into his palms and he pushed his thumbs into his ears. Sometimes he wished he could turn them off, just for a little while. Other times…

Arthur's hand drifted to his phone. He should call Cobb, he told himself, ask how the kids were doing. He should. But he knew he wouldn't. His thumb pulled up his voicemail with a practiced flick and Arthur closed his eyes and pressed the phone to his ear.

" _Arthur, darling! I'm in sunny California and I'm thinking of you. No idea why. You're from New York, right? At least, that's what I've been told. But something about you makes me think you know your way around a surfboard. Anyway, I just spoke to Geoffrey and he said you're also on that Brussels job. See you there, love."_

Arthur sighed and sat back in his seat, eyes still shut, and his entire body thrumming. His thumb pulled up another random voicemail.

" _Mmm, Aaaarthur. I've just heard the naughtiest rumor about you. This chap in New Brunswick seems to know you awfully well, darling, and he's got some pretty amazing things to say about you. How much_ _ **do**_ _you know about crew socks?"_

That one always made him smile, even as the slow purl of Eames' accent made his pants a little tighter.

Another.

" _Hello, darling, it's me. Fifteen minutes out, but it looks like I'll be stuck in this bloody traffic until I'm late for your ever-so-important meeting. Don't say anything salacious until I arrive."_

And another.

" _Arthur, you really must change your voicemail greeting, it's dead boring. Maybe something—"_

"Arthur, you here?" Eames' voice echoed in the empty warehouse and Arthur jerked the phone away from his ear and sat up straight. "We got you a salad since you didn't tell me what you… wanted."

The green extractor trailed behind Eames, a tray of drinks in one hand and his phone in the other, oblivious to everything, but Eames' eyes were sharp on Arthur's.

Arthur hurried to slip his phone into his pocket and take one of the bags from Eames without meeting his gaze.

"Great, thanks."

Eames hummed his response and Arthur could feel his eyes on him as he ate.

It was fine. Arthur ate and worked and it was fine. Eames kept to himself and kept his mouth shut, for  _once_ , and Arthur pretended his heartbeat didn't respond to the weight of Eames' gaze on him.

When he reached a natural stopping point, he rolled his shoulders and closed his laptop.

"I'm out," he announced to the other two, keeping his eyes on his bag. Eames nodded and watched him pack up, and Arthur's hand brushing his pocket could have been him checking his totem. It could have been.

"Arthur."

He jumped once again when that voice was too close. How had Eames learned to move so quietly?

"Yeah?"

"Fancy a drink with me? I've got a few questions we could talk about over dinner too if you don't have other plans."

Arthur felt scraped raw, every syllable that fell from Eames' lips like licking a battery. He wanted to beg, "No more, please God, have some fucking mercy." Or possibly, "Please God, more, more, have some fucking mercy."

"Not tonight, Eames. I'll be in early tomorrow. Can your questions wait until then?"

Eames gave him a thoughtful frown and a nod. "Sure, sure. Let me get your jacket."

Eames held his suit jacket out for him as he rolled down his sleeves and Arthur accepted it, slipping it on like armor.

He was almost out the door when he reached for his phone and came up with only a red die.

Arthur whirled, furious and terrified, and snarled, "Eames. Give it back."

"Give what back, darling?" Eames asked, all blinking innocence and guilt, and Arthur strode over to where he stood.

"Now. Give it back  _now._ " Arthur held out his hand.

Eames tsked and fished Arthur's phone from his jacket pocket. "What? This old thing?" He grinned at Arthur. "I'd rather hoped you wouldn't notice for just a bit longer, darling."

Their extractor looked delighted. "Woah, nice pull, Eames! I didn't know—"

Arthur drew his gun from the holster at his side and pointed it between Eames' perfect eyes. "Give it. Back. Now."

The extractor held his hands up. "Okay, now, Arthur, easy… It was all in good fun, right, Eames?"

Eames' eyebrow raised and he tilted his head to look Arthur in the eye. "Oh yes, good fun. You see, mate, Arthur here has excellent trigger control. He wasn't really prepared to shoot me. Look, safety's still on and everything. This was practically a love—"

Arthur flipped off the safety.

"—letter."

Arthur's voice was deadly calm, his finger still laying alongside the barrel though. "Give me the phone, Eames."

The silence was so thick Arthur could hear the extractor swallow.

Eames didn't move except to extend the hand with Arthur's phone. "Alright, Arthur. Easy enough."

Arthur took it and as soon as the familiar case touched his fingertips, he flipped the safety back on and re-holstered his gun.

Eames dropped his hands and raised his eyebrows. "Well, my, my, darling. I am definitely less interested in your mobile now."

"Glad to hear it," Arthur said, breezy and neutral. "See you tomorrow morning." Then he walked out without a care. Eames wasn't the only one who could lie through his teeth.

Arthur wanted to head to the hotel bar, but changed clothes and went to the hotel gym instead. Treadmill and laps around the pool, until the ache in his chest was probably from exertion and nothing else.

The sheets were cool, and the lights were out, and Arthur had white noise playing on his phone, but after an hour he sighed and sat up. He turned on the bedside lamp and pinched the bridge of his nose, weighing the different things he could try in the interest of getting to sleep quickly in lieu of succumbing to the one he knew would work. In the end, he compromised. One hand scrolling in incognito mode and the other shoving his shorts past his hips, Arthur tried not to think. He could be fast and he could get some fucking sleep and be coherent enough to deal with Eames and his stupid voice tomorrow.

The throb of his dick in his hand told him he wasn't not thinking hard enough about Eames' voice. Arthur looked down and glared. "Fuck you. You think you know what you want? You're a fucking masochist. He would chew you up and spit you out."

Another throb told him that sounded alright too, and Arthur gave in. His thumb found his voicemail with ease and the trail of precum leaking onto his stomach was practically Pavlovian. Thank god for speakerphone.

" _Arthur, my dearest, could you be so kind as to open the bloody door? It's 9 below out here and I'm freezing my oh so lovely bollocks off."_

Arthur licked his lips and slowed his hand.

" _Darling, there's a problem with the build, hoping you can look at it when you're done. Nothing major, five minutes, tops."_

" _Darling! I've got a mark about twenty feet to my left who has started giving me a very rude and suspicious-looking stare, which is just intolerable, really, since I've been following him for a week and he just now is starting to notice. So you, my love, are my non-suspicious phone call. How am I doing? Very non-suspicious? Mmm hmm, I couldn't agree more. You don't say? Hahaha, you saucy minx you! Well, we'll just have to see about that, won't we? Oh, darling, I've got a bottle of wine that says otherwise. Well, we'll just have to put our heads together and see what we come up with. I'm sure we could— fuck, I think he's got off the train."_

Arthur groaned and threw his head back.

" _Arthur, I have a two-hour layover in this bloody nowhere airport and I was desperately hoping you'd pick up your phone for once because I slept the entire flight here and it's either talk to you or do press ups in the middle of the boarding area. But since you never answer your bloody mobile, I don't know why I'm surprised. I would like to hear your voice, though, from time to time. Just, you know, to make sure you're not dead. But I suppose I'll see you in Moscow next month. Till then, darling."_

His lips tipped into a fond smile even as his breath grew choppy.

" _Arthur, darling, happy Hanukkah! Back to not answering your phone, I see. Ah, well. I'm in Colorado and it's snowing and I was thinking of that time we… wait. We did a job in Colorado together, right? That wasn't just a dream, was it? Hmm. Well, happy holidays anyway."_

Arthur's panting over the sound of that voice in this ears did nothing to diminish its power.

" _Arthur, you bloody prat! That's three months of fucking work down the drain, and I cannot believe you pulled the plug on this job, you utter shit. If it had been Cobb running it you would have pushed through, even at the expense of everyone's safety, and still gotten the job done, and as I continue talking, maybe I'm realizing that it's probably better that we didn't push through at the expense of everyone's safety. So I'm still bloody angry at you but less so than I was a minute ago and, bugger, I'm already over it. Want to get a drink?"_

Arthur thrust into his fist, hips pumping. "Oh, fuck, Eames, oh fu—"

" _Darling, it's me. I'm running about three days out on this one, and you can scowl at me when I get there, but there's nothing for it. But I'm switching the forge to the psychologist, and you'll have to trust me. I'll explain in three days. Maybe over a drink?"_

With every muscle taut, Arthur arched off the bed, his release hitting his chest as he came with a choked cry.

" _Arthur, love. I'm in town early. Want to get a drink?"_

Arthur grappled for his phone with a shaky hand to stop the playback, Eames' voice pressing on him and making him oversensitive. He lay back amid the rucked up sheets, lights on, the only white noise the hum between his ears, and covered in his own mess. He was out in seconds.

* * *

Their extractor was newish to the business but an old hand at the con, and Eames could respect that. But he fought back a frown at the scene he walked in on and deposited his things, silently, even though Arthur no doubt heard him enter. The extractor was deep in conversation with Arthur as he got himself coffee, standing far too close and his voice pitched far too low. Eames strained to hear.

"But what if we bring someone new on? How about then?"

"Are you planning on that?" Arthur, in his normal tone of voice, sounded semi-amused. "Because that changes a lot of—"

"No, no, that's not…" the extractor sighed. "Can you at least think about it?"

"No." Arthur took a calm sip of coffee.

"Arthur, what the hell, man? Why not?"

"Because it's your name, Bobby. I barely have time to remember your actual name let alone some nickname you gave yourself."

Eames' mood shifted considerably for the better and he grinned. "Good morning, Bobby! Arthur."

The extractor grimaced, to Eames' delight.

"I just don't understand why," he said, one step from whining. "You guys are  _Arthur_  and  _Eames,_  I swear to god it's like performing with Madonna and Cher!"

Eames and Arthur both said "I'm Cher," at the same time, and Arthur, in his besuited glory, even after yesterday's row, smiled at him. Good lord if those bloody dimples wouldn't kill him someday.

The extractor rolled his eyes like he was the one putting up with them, and said, "You just need to introduce me that way once and it'll stick. I know it."

Arthur settled himself on a rickety wooden chair, tipping it back on its hind legs as he considered Bobby. "Fine," he agreed. "I will introduce you that way exactly once. But you'll take a 15% pay cut for setting you up with a reputation while I'm at it, and you'll be grateful I'm not cutting it more."

"Oh, no, that's totally fine," Bobby said, the thinking frown on his face not enough to hide the glee in his eyes. "I understand. 15% is fine, thanks, Arthur. Really."

Eames flipped a paper over and bit back a grin. Arthur, you sly bastard.

Eames desperately wanted to know what Arthur was hiding on that phone. Arthur, fearless, impenetrable Arthur, had reacted as expected, but with a little less joking and a lot more… passion than Eames had anticipated. Now that Eames knew Arthur had a button like that, how could he resist pressing it again? But since he didn't actually want to end up shot, and he had no doubt Arthur  _would_  shoot him and call it a life lesson, Eames had to choose his moment carefully.

Arthur kept to the other side of the warehouse all day, and truthfully, Eames had enough to keep him busy. The mobile could wait. He was forging two people this go, one of his standard generics and a dead sister, and he hated the dead ones. Always too much chance to get it wrong. Eames had a plan to get what he needed for this forge, but it also meant he needed an extraction plan if it went off the rails.

"Well, Arthur, you're not expecting us to come in tomorrow, yeah? Going to check out a few things tonight, I think."

Eames packed up as he waited for his reaction, Arthur's weight perfectly balanced on the chair's back legs, the tips of his brogues brushing the concrete. His precisely cuffed trousers dropped perfectly over his ankles, and how did he get his clothes to  _do_  that? Like they submitted to his will instead of him just wearing them.

Arthur hummed through his frown, which might have been at Eames as easily as it might have been the moleskin he was pouring over. "On Christmas Eve? What are you checking out?"

Eames shrugged. "Thought I might drop in on the elder Mr. Mickle residence. I have a feeling we might have a lot in common. For example, did you know I have a feverish love of old home movies?"

He said it casually, like he just enjoyed dropping personal information on Arthur, but Arthur blinked up from his notes owlishly as he registered what Eames was saying. "Home movies?" Eames could practically see the wheels in his head flying. "Do you really need them?"

Eames cocked his head at Arthur's tone. He sounded apologetic. Of course Arthur would think he should have somehow gotten those already, even though it was outside of even his considerable reach. For a moment Eames almost reconsidered his play, but he really did need the tapes. Arthur's research was the best in the business, but there was a reason Eames was the best at what he did. "They wouldn't hurt."

Arthur frowned as he settled his chair back on the ground and reached for his laptop. "What about his security system? The neighborhood watch? It's a gated community, Eames."

Eames waved a hand. "I'm a thief, remember, darling? Trust me."

Arthur scowled. "What time are you leaving?"

"Oh, no." Eames raised his hands, backing up. "I'm not taking you with me. Forget it."

"Eames," Arthur said, with his perfect little scowl, the sharp edge of real anger coloring his name, "if you get caught, you blow this whole job."

Eames smirked and shrugged, his best Make-Arthur-Angry expression in place. "So I won't get caught." He tossed his keys and snatched them out of the air, spinning toward the door.

"Eames," Arthur cautioned again, rising to his feet.

"Fine! If you insist. I'll pick you up at 8:00 darling, and wear something sexy." He opened the door and whispered loudly, "I like black."

—

Eames spotted him as he exited the warehouse, and Dominic Cobb, Yankees cap pulled down low over his ears and his shoulders hunched as he stared at his phone, winced. Eames checked for any other tails and then crossed the street and his arms, pointedly.

"Hey, Eames." Dom gave an apologetic grin. "Long time."

Eames grunted and turned back to the car, folding himself in the front seat and grimacing as the passenger door opened. "Cobb…" he said, on an exasperated sigh.

"Look, I'm not here to mess anything up. I'd just heard you guys were running a job and I thought you guys might need my help—"

"We don't."

"— which is what I thought you'd say," Cobb hurried to explain. "But you do. You really do. I know this town, and I know this mark."

Eames looked at him. "What, personally?"

And Dom, who he'd seen at his lowest point, looked hungrier, in control, and decidedly less crazy than the last time they'd worked together. Didn't mean Eames wanted him in his bloody car, though.

"No, not personally," Dom admitted. "But!" he said over Eames' eye roll as he reached for the keys, "I can get you close. You wanted an inside track to the office, and I can get you in."

Eames gritted his teeth, one hand on the gear stick and the other squeezing too hard on the steering wheel. He loosened his grip and stretched his neck, thinking. Then he grabbed his phone.

Sent to voicemail. Naturally.

" _Leave a message."_

Arthur's curt, unfriendly voicemail greeting never failed to warm him a little, no matter the situation.

"Arthur, my dearest, you'll never guess in a million years who is sitting in my car right now. Sandy blonde hair, dreamy blue eyes, squints a lot. Says he's got something for us. I'm sending him your way—up to you if you let him in or not."

With that, he hung up and stared pointedly at Dom.

"Merry Christmas, Eames," he said as he thankfully got the bloody hell out. Eames peeled away and didn't look back.

* * *

Eames' voicemail, with its thread of pissed off, was concerning and annoying, but Arthur was glad he'd listened to it away from prying eyes. This was getting to be a problem. He saved it and told himself he wasn't going to listen to it again tonight, and then refused to think about it at all. At  _all._

He opened the door to Dom's unapologetic face, and he'd never been apologetic before, so Arthur didn't know why he expected it now. "How?" he snapped.

"Yusuf."

Arthur gritted his teeth because that probably meant Eames was who had given out their location, which meant he wasn't as mad as he should be. And Dom  _had_ been an excellent extractor once upon a time. Who knows what he'd said to Yusuf.

Arthur walked away and Dom took the invitation to come in and close the door behind him. Arthur went to his model, fidgeting with it to keep his hands busy. "So? You said you have something for us?"

"Arthur. Come on. It's been a year. You're not even going to say hi to me?"

Arthur looked at him. "Hi. You said you have something for us."

"Jesus, Arthur."

And Arthur was done. He didn't care that Bobby was in the room, pretending not to listen. He didn't care that Dom was looking at him like a kicked puppy. "You almost killed us. You almost killed E—everyone on that job. You tried to blame it on me. And you think I'm just going to, what? Forgive you? Run point for you again? Well, the answer is no, to both. You already got your kids back."

Dom looked confused. "But you sent Christmas presents."

"Yeah, to your  _children_ , Dom. They didn't fuck up; you did."

"I didn't fuck up," Dom scowled. "We all walked away clean, and I don't hear you complaining about the money or the reputation. And James and Phillipa are fine, thanks for asking."

Arthur counted to ten in his head. "You got lucky," he finally muttered. "But for their sakes, I'm glad you did. Doesn't mean I want you on my jobs though. I don't like to gamble."

Dom gave him a knowing look. "You do too. You love it. And I've never seen anyone else play a shit hand the way you do, Arthur."

"What do you want?" Arthur snapped, annoyed at how the flattery worked on him.

Dom held up his hands. "I don't need to be on your job. The intel was a peace offering, and I know you don't need it so I don't care if you use it. But…"

Arthur waited and then crossed his arms. "But?"

"But let's just, I don't know, go grab some dinner and catch up. Just… meet me at The Hill and we'll eat crab legs and I'll give you my contact's information. That's it. No strings attached."

"I have a hard time believing that, Dom."

Dom looked at this shoes, surprisingly quiet. "We were friends, before. Just because I'm out, doesn't mean we can't be friends again. Christ, Arthur," he said, hands in his pockets, "we're in the same town and you didn't even get in touch. It's Christmas."

He looked hurt but like he was trying to still be on the attack, which was how Arthur knew it was real. Dom didn't know how to run defense-that was Arthur's job.

"Fine. But not tonight."

Dom looked up from his shoes and raised his eyebrows, his face calculating as Arthur felt his ears heating up.

"You going down some chimneys, Arthur?"

"Goodbye, Dom."

Dom grinned, wide and victorious, but turned toward the door. "Alright, alri—"

"Ahem!"

Bobby cleared his throat, standing next to them with his hands behind his back, smiling at Arthur expectantly.

"Ah, fuck," Arthur whispered to himself. "Dom. Let me introduce you to our extractor. This is Bo—"

"Ahem!"

Arthur sighed. "This is The Machete."

Dom gave him a thoughtful frown and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Machete."

Bobby gaped after Dom as he turned to leave and Arthur grinned as Bobby trailed after him explaining it was "The" and not "Mister" unless Mister sounded better, and…

His hand was on his phone to call Eames, like it had been a thousand times before, and Arthur stopped himself, like he'd done a thousand times before. Well, he had an empty warehouse and a new voicemail to listen to. And something black to buy.

* * *

Eames knocked on Arthur's door at a quarter past 8, because he knew it would piss Arthur off. Eames, you're late for our break-in! How could you be so cavalier! People are expecting us!

He drew his hoodie up over his baseball cap as he waited for Arthur to answer the door. The night was calm and a bit cool for this time of year, so the extra layer wouldn't look out of place and could be shed easily if he ended up running and needed to change his appearance quickly. Good thing Arthur would be in the car. Couldn't exactly scale a fence in a three-piece suit, at least not topside. Not that Eames wouldn't like to see him—

— _Jesus Christ._ Arthur opened the door dressed in head-to-toe black tactical gear. He was wearing  _leather gloves_  for fuck's sake, and Eames did not think it was possible at this point in his life to find out he had a new kink, but god damn if those weren't doing it for him.

"Eames? Hello?"

Eames cleared his throat. "Sorry, darling. What was that?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I asked if we were going, but you appear to be in your pajamas, so maybe you need to change first?"

Eames looked down at his hoodie and sweatpants, topped by his favorite trainers. "I'm in something that won't draw attention, Mission Impossible."

"Your hoodie has a giant tiger on it."

Eames couldn't stop the stupid grin even though he knew Arthur was semi-serious. "It's fashion, baby."

Arthur closed his door behind him, a giant duffel bag over his shoulder. Black, of course. To match the color scheme. "Don't call me that. Let's go. I'm driving."

"In those trousers, I can deny you nothing, Arthur," Eames said, and tossed him the keys. Then he followed Arthur down the hallway because he wasn't kidding about those trousers. Or about denying Arthur anything, if he was being honest.

When they reached the Mickle's neighborhood, Arthur parked a few blocks away and reached in the back for his bag.

"Here, should be on channel 3." He handed Eames a two-way radio and a small torch. Eames kept the radio and handed the light back.

"Don't need it," Eames replied to his frown. "I have super-human night vision, darling." He reached for the handle and froze when Arthur grabbed his arm.

"Eames, have you even cased this place at all?"

Eames felt a flash of anger. He had been doing it for longer than Arthur had been in the business, thank you much. "No, Arthur, fancied a bit of jail time, actually. Thought I might like a break."

"I'm serious. I don't like this. Do you know if he's home?"

Eames sighed through his nose. If Arthur had any idea the power those chocolate-brown eyes had, he was a dead man. "He has bingo at the church hall on Wednesdays, he's never back before 10:00. He's got three motion-detectors around the perimeter of the house, and a wireless security system inside. He's 79 years old, has a bad hip, doesn't hear as well as he used to, and his middle name is Eugene. Now. If you don't mind..."

Arthur withdrew his hand gingerly and put it back on the wheel. "Fine. Check the radio when you get to the perimeter."

Eames nodded and as he exited the car, slipped into his former skin, the one he wore as a punk kid, the one his mother hated, the one who hated everyone else. His stride lengthened, he slouched, he sauntered to a beat only he could hear. He melted into the shadows.

The petulant teen he'd become wanted to tell Arthur to piss off, but he checked the radio when he got there because he was a professional petulant teen. Also because he did actually need another man on the ground if he got into trouble, so it was better not to prod the bear, especially when that bear was Arthur.

"Radio check, over," Eames muttered as he drew up to the property, porch light flooding the driveway. Eames kept to the shadows.

"Copy that, you're in range, over."

"Glad to hear it," Eames snarked into the radio. "Can you tell me, dear Arthur, why we couldn't have just used our mobiles? Over." He let the radio click into white noise as he tried the lock on the back gate.

There was a pause before Arthur said, "Because then you wouldn't get to say 'over' at the end of every sentence. Over."

Eames grinned and shoved the radio into the pocket of his sweats, deep enough it wouldn't fall out as he scrambled up and over the fence. He scooted through the motion detectors' fairly large blind spot and shimmied through the second story bathroom window, left cracked for some insane reason, before he hurried to plug his decryption app into the wall panel in the hallway. He had eight seconds to spare when the panel clicked to green and he grinned again. Taking his time now, he strolled through the darkened hallways, taking in Mickle's boyhood photos plastered all down the stairs, and the scent of dinner still lingering in the kitchen. Pot roast? Eames' stomach rumbled.

Eames gave a low whistle at the curved flat screen which stretched from wall to wall in the living room and frowned at the wireless tech setup. Not only were there no blu rays or DVDs gathering dust on a sagging shelf, there definitely weren't any VHS home movies waiting for Eames' light fingers. He checked cupboards and end tables anyway. Next stop was the office, bedroom and guest room, all of which turned up empty. Eames frowned.

Which was when he heard it. A quiet thump in the upstairs hallway, followed by the panel announcing the 30 seconds to shut off the system. Fuck. Eames hadn't brought a gun, and now he was regretting it. He slunk back to the kitchen, grabbing a knife from the block and easing his way through the shadows to the bottom of the stairs. He waited as the silence stretched, knowing the panel would tell him one way or the other how fast he needed to get out of here. His ears started to ache, trying desperately to hear some movement, and he held his breath.

He heard a series of beeps against the panel, then the slow, light tread of someone trying not to make noise. So they knew he was here, then. Or at least they suspected. Eames readjusted his grip on the knife as a pair of sinfully tight tactical trousers strafed down the stairs.

"Arthur?" he whispered, the rush of adrenaline too strong to dissipate very fast.

The feet froze. "Eames? Are you okay?" he whispered back.

"Yes, you condescending prick, why wouldn't I be?" Eames hissed. "I do  _actually_ know what I'm doing."

Arthur's lovely face, pinched and angry, appeared in the stairwell as he leaned down to see into the kitchen. "You stopped answering the radio." Arthur's leather-bound hands cradled a pistol, which Eames was slightly relieved to see, just in case.

Eames scowled. "You didn't call me on the radio. And why are we still whispering?" He yanked the radio out of his pocket and immediately saw the problem. The channel knob at the top had gotten turned and a red number "four" glared at him. Eames clicked it back to three and pressed the button. "Oops. Over."

Arthur's own radio, held in a loop on his thigh, echoed his sentiment. Arthur sighed and put his gun away. "Did you find what you were looking for, at least? Can we get out of here?"

"No, we bloody well can't, this old cock has some serious home theater going on. He's probably got them in storage somewhere. Help me look. Since you're here anyway…"

Eames listed the rooms he'd cleared as he put the knife back in the block and Arthur frowned. Then he looked up. "Did you check the attic?"

Eames came over to the stairs and looked up to see the pull for the attic stairs in the hallway ceiling. He grunted and Arthur led the way, snagging the pull and heaving, the creak of the stairs deafening in the silent house. The opening yawned, dark and dusty, and Arthur gestured. "Age before beauty."

Eames grinned. "Can't argue that, darling."

Eames eased his way into the cramped opening, cautious for reasons he couldn't name as the close, hot air enveloped him. It was dark up here, the only light coming from cracks in the floor, and Eames pulled his torch out of his pocket. It wasn't dirty so much as cluttered, boxes stacked to the rafters in some places.

Arthur eased into the space behind him, and suddenly the attic seemed much smaller.

"Well, I guess it could be worse," Arthur said, looking at the boxes. "He's got them labeled, at least."

Eames grunted. "This one says, 'Stuff'."

"Come on," Arthur said, stepping around him. "The sooner we get started the sooner we can—"

The unmistakable beep of the front door key code being entered made both of them freeze. Then Arthur, with his slim elegance tucked into tactical gear that shouldn't be sexy, gracefully reached for the stairs and yanked them closed, just as the front door opened. They were plunged into almost total darkness and they stood, close together in the warm air, waiting to see if Mickle Sr had heard them.

They listened to him disarm the alarm and followed his footsteps as he tramped through the house. Then a groan and a thump as he lowered himself into the armchair in the living room, and the thrum of a state-of-the-art sound system blasting a game show through the floor of the attic.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" Eames breathed. Arthur, standing in front of him, one hand still on the stair pull, seemed to shiver. "What time is it?"

Arthur pressed a button on his watch and it glowed, soft green light sweeping over Arthur's cheekbones. "8:38," he whispered back, frowning. The light blinked off again.

They waited for a few more seconds, but the game show continued and eventually, Arthur muttered, "His middle name is Eugene. Fuck, Eames. You couldn't have found out something useful? Like what time Christmas Eve Bingo gets over?"

Eames clenched his jaw around the retort as he felt Arthur shift. A soft brush of tactical cargos against sweatpants and suddenly Eames' mouth was a little dry. He took a step back and froze when a loud creak erupted from the floorboard.

Eames' heart hammered in his chest as they heard the game show pause and Mr. Mickle rise from his chair.

From beneath them came a muffled, "Hello?"

Arthur felt behind him in the dark, grabbing a handful of Eames' sweats, holding him in place. Neither of them moved, although their breaths sounded loud in the close space, and they waited for the man to pad back to his chair and resume his show.

"Well, bugger," Eames whispered as loud as he dared. "I'm getting my god damned money back. 'Doesn't hear as well as he used to', my arse."

Arthur's hand gripped tighter around his sweatpants, but he didn't respond.

"So what now?" Eames asked. "Because at this point, I say we wait until midnight, yell, 'Ho Ho Ho,' and make a break for—"

"Will you stop  _talking_?" Arthur said, and his voice sounded strained. Eames tried to make out his profile in the dark but could only catch the shape of his nose and the downward curve of his mouth. "This was your job," he finally continued, sounding more like himself. "You are never running point on anything, ever again."

"Yeah, well  _this_  wasn't exactly part of my plan!" Eames hissed, gesturing at the blackness around him. "You were supposed to be in the damn car, and Wheel of Fortune down there was supposed to hate technology as much as any other 79-year-old. And need I remind you, if you hadn't—"

"Al _right_  already, fine, it's all my fault. Just…" Arthur dropped his hand and tried to put more space between them. "Just stop."

"Stop  _what_?" Eames growled. This night was edging into can't-get-much-worse territory and he didn't need Arthur's prickly negativity right now. He wasn't like that most of the time, and why he chose right now to be—

"Stop— ! Nothing. Nevermind. Look, let's just wait fifteen minutes or so and then we can—"

"Wait, wait, wait— nevermind? Arthur! Are you changing the subject?" Eames' previous annoyance faded and maybe it was the danger or maybe they were using up too much oxygen by whispering, but Eames was grinning.

"No! You're just…" Arthur jerked his head away, "whispering in my damn ear, okay?"

And whatever it was, the tension or the air, Eames shoved his head closer to Arthur's and teased, "Ohhh, poor baby, does that bother you?"

Except Arthur… Arthur didn't get stiff and angry like Eames expected. Arthur didn't draw his gun like a love letter. Arthur  _melted_. He sagged back against Eames' body, his legs giving out, and if Eames hadn't been there with hands around his hips to hold him up, Arthur would have sunk to the floor. Eames' eyes had adjusted enough to see Arthur's eyes closed and his lips parted, his tongue flicking out to wet them.

"Arthur?"

Eames' fingers tightened in concern, but then Arthur made this… sound. Eames had never heard anything like it, something between a whine and a growl, and Arthur's face took on a pinched look, like he was trying to pull himself together. The already close air warmed, and the tension changed. Eames could feel every inch of contact between them.

More. Immediately, he wanted more. "Darling," Eames tried, drawing the word out. Arthur's answering sigh ended in a whimper and suddenly Eames had to focus on keeping it together himself as he held Arthur up, their bodies pressed against each other. Then Arthur tilted his head back, elongating his neck and offering it up to Eames like a feast. His brain shorted out. "Jesus Christ, Arthur," he breathed, drawing in his scent. "What are you doing right now?" He trailed his nose up that delectable neck.

Arthur shuddered out a laugh. "You don't know," he gasped quietly, "what you do to me." His fists closed in the material of Eames' sweats again, then opened as he palmed Eames' thighs.

Arousal pooled in Eames' belly and spread everywhere. "I'm starting to get an idea." His lips brushed Arthur's neck, and he wanted to taste, bite. He wanted to make Arthur tremble and squirm, and most of all, he wanted him to make  _so much_ noise. "I'm starting to get a lot of ideas, actually."

Arthur shivered. "We have  _got_ to get out of here."

Eames thought of all the times he'd torn his eyes away from Arthur, hell, he'd torn away from  _thoughts_ of Arthur, and cursed himself for a fool. This was the world's worst timing he knew, even as his hands circled Arthur's waist. Arthur would eventually come to his senses and stop them, which meant Eames should take advantage of the hazy look in Arthur's eyes and the delicious tenting of those tactical trousers.

"Right," Eames said, pulling back. "You're right." He leaned Arthur away from him, giving them both those scant few inches of breathing room and rationality. "You had a plan, love, before I derailed it. Let's focus on that. What was it?"

Arthur blinked. "Um." He took a few deep breaths and gave his head a little shake before turning to look Eames in the eye.

Eames looked back, solid and calming, he hoped. Arthur's eyebrows drew together and he gave a little nod. There was the Arthur-on-a-Job he knew so well.

"Uh, yeah. We need to shift our weight slowly, spreading it out as much as possible." He swallowed, avoiding Eames' gaze. "Did you ever skate on a pond when you were a kid?"

Understanding sparked and Eames nodded. "Right then? You first, love."

Arthur's eyes flashed to his, almost embarrassed, but he set his mouth and crouched, shifting his weight inch by inch onto his fingertips, then hands and knees. He moved achingly slowly, and Eames had to look away from the sinuous stretch of the body in front of him, anywhere else.

"Okay," Arthur whispered when he'd gotten into position. "We're going to have to wait until—"

"Arthur."

Arthur turned to look at him, but Eames was staring at the box labeled "Home movies." He let out a relieved breath and Arthur huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

"Until he's asleep," he finished. "You good?"

Eames nodded and began the process of lowering his larger form to the floor, avoiding the floorboard which had started this charade. When his bulk was finally settled in for the long haul, he looked at Arthur. He was still on his hands and knees, hovering near the entrance to the stairs, his weight spread out over as much space as possible. "Look at you. Like a Christmas card."

Arthur shot him a glare and Eames just grinned. "You know I'm not letting this go, yeah? We are going to have words, you and I."

"Fucking perfect," Arthur muttered, glaring at the floor.

"Arthur," Eames said. "I'm serious."

Arthur sighed and shifted into a press up, lowering himself to the floor stretched out on his belly. He pressed his ear to the floor, listening for a long while, before crossing his arms and propping his chin on them. He refused to look at Eames, but his voice was a low, quiet tone when he said. "Fine. What."

Eames gaped at him, glad they didn't have to whisper but gesturing wildly. "What do you mean, what? What was that just now?"

Arthur muttered something Eames didn't catch and said, "It was nothing, okay, Eames? Sometimes I forget your voice is attached to the rest of you. It's fine. I'm fine now."

Eames raised an eyebrow. "My voice? Is that was it was?" He rubbed his chin. "Well now, that's very interesting information. Anything else about me that you like?"

Arthur muttered something else that sounded like, "Not if I can help it," and Eames shifted his weight to his belly too. Stretched on the floor of the dusty attic, perpendicular to Arthur but his head mere inches from Arthur's beautiful face, Eames rested his chin on his fist.

"What if I start?" he offered.

Arthur looked over at him then, dubious.

"I like working on your jobs," he admitted. Arthur's mouth dropped in shock, but it was true. Eames shrugged. "You're the best, Arthur, always have been. The only time I've ever said no is when I'd had a prior commitment."

"Oh. That's…" Arthur blinked at him.

"And I like your music."

"My music?" His adorable frown surfaced.

Eames nodded. "And the way you roll your cuffs. And your god-awful love of egg salad sandwiches, whatever is the matter with you, darling?"

"Hey, don't talk to me about food, Mr. Marmite-on-everything, and can we talk about syrup?"

Eames grinned. "It's good."

"Eames. If it's not real maple syrup it's  _not_  good. By definition."

"Mmm, then Mrs Butterworth is a sweet, sweet sin."

"God, save me."

But Arthur was smiling now and Eames reached over, as he'd wanted to so many times, and swiped a thumb across that dimple. Arthur's face softened.

"You always know the answer," he said.

Arthur looked a little uncomfortable. "Not  _al_ ways," he started.

"And you're fearless. And loyal. And downright terrifying."

Arthur grimaced. "No, I'm really not."

"You are."

Arthur looked annoyed. "How would you know? I just told Dom today that I wasn't going to work any jobs with him and I didn't want his fucking intel. Because I'm so god damned loyal."

Eames brightened, like Arthur had given him a gift. "You did? Darling!"

"Eames…"

"Arthur. I know because I've known you for years. I  _enjoy_  you, for pity's sake. Surely you can't have missed that?"

Arthur squirmed and avoided his eyes. "I don't know. I just thought you were… like that. With everyone. And you're always starting shit and I— "

Eames chuckled quietly, his thumb tracing Arthur's jawline. "I do so like to get a rise out of you, darling."

"Oh fuck you," Arthur glared. "Do you know how often I've thought of punching you in your smug face?"

Eames grinned and bit his lip. "Was that before or after you thought about fucking me over your desk?"

Heat bloomed in Arthur's eyes and his gaze dropped to Eames' mouth. It was too dark to see if his neck was turning that fetching red shade, and Eames wanted to  _taste_ him.

"Mmm, darling, what I wouldn't give to be nearly anywhere else right now."

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and let his forehead drop to his arms. He let out a frustrated groan and Eames couldn't have agreed more.

"Wait…" Arthur breathed. "Listen."

Silence hung between them, pressing on Eames' eardrums. "I don't hear— anything," he realized. He listened again. "Is that…?"

Arthur nodded. "Yeah, I think it is."

"Should we…?"

"Yeah, I think we should. Get your stupid tapes and be fucking careful."

Eames nodded and eased himself into all fours, then rising slowly, avoiding the floorboard and keeping his weight spread out. By the time he'd unstacked boxes and located not one but three tapes with the right years on them, Arthur had eased open the stairway and was lowering it inch by silent inch. The light from the Christmas tree in the living room spilled over Arthur's form, glistening off the sweat on his face and forearms as he strained to control the descent. His nostrils flared and his scowl of concentration was intimidating, and Eames thought his chest might burst open with warmth.

When the stairs were finally lowered all the way, Arthur took a few seconds to catch his breath before lowering himself down through the opening without using it at all. Mickle's snores were even louder down here, but better safe than sorry. Plus, it was fucking hot as hell. Eames passed the tapes to Arthur one at a time, who secured them in his handy cargo pockets, and really Eames should wear those more often. Then Eames followed him down. Arthur didn't wait for him, just eased his way quietly past the snoring man's bedroom and toward the second story window. Eames disarmed the system and the motion detectors and followed him.

Arthur was five steps ahead of him the whole way, not looking back, just efficiency and moving like he was late to a business meeting. Eames hurried to keep up. When they finally reached the car, Arthur buckled his seatbelt as he spoke.

"Okay, we can ditch the car now, in case anyone saw us and drop the tapes back at the warehouse, unless you think—"

"Darling," Eames said, his voice low and curling into Arthur's ear.

Arthur froze. His face was unreadable, his gloved hand on the ignition as he stared through the windshield. Eames waited, less sure than he'd been in the attic.

"Did you mean it?" Arthur suddenly asked, his voice tight.

Eames grinned, relieved. "Which part? The part about you bending me over your desk or the part about Mrs Butterworth?"

Arthur scowled, as he'd known he would. "Fuck Mrs Butterworth, I know exactly how you feel about Mrs—"

Eames chuckled warmly and leaned forward into Arthur's space, tiny kisses across his jaw as he reached to turn Arthur's face toward him. Eames smiled as he breathed Arthur's air, watching his mouth, drawing it out. "I meant it. Every word. For a long time now."

Arthur softened, hopeful and adorable as he searched Eames' eyes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Eames leaned forward to close the distance, watching as his words made Arthur shiver. "Oh, I am going to have such fun with you. What a wonderful Christmas gift you've given me, Arthur."

Arthur rolled his eyes, looking definitely less nervous. "I'm Jewish, Eames."

Eames grinned, nudging his nose along Arthur's. "I know. It's very generous of you. My darling Arthur," he murmured, "fearless," he brushed his lips over Arthur's, teasing, "loyal," he opened his lips, making him wait, "terrifying," his voice lowered, dangerous and promising, "and so very, very," he touched the tip of his tongue to Arthur's bottom lip, "generous."

"Oh my god, stop talking," Arthur growled and kissed him.

And that's Eames' favorite Christmas memory.

* * *

When they made it back to the warehouse, Arthur still felt lightheaded from their makeout session in the rental car. Eames had let him pull away, grinning his smug grin, and they'd taken the proper steps to secure their getaway before Eames had brought it up, but now they were here. The warehouse was a familiar shared space where Eames would push his luck, and keep pushing until Arthur made him stop, and Arthur  _knew_  he was a masochist because he wasn't sure he wanted to make Eames stop.

Eames could say whatever he wanted about Mrs Butterworth, but Arthur had played it close to the vest because he wasn't joking about this. This wasn't a 20-minute attic conversation and then a shared handjob for a quick release before it all went back to normal. Not for him. And it wasn't fair to give Eames that impression, even if it meant losing Eames.

So Arthur handed over the home movies and Eames deposited them gleefully on the desk he'd claimed for himself to be viewed tomorrow. And when he came back to Arthur, all smug grin and anticipation, Arthur was ready for him.

He put his phone down on the desk in front of him, turned on the speakerphone, and hit play. Then he put his hands in his pockets and waited.

" _Darling, you can't possibly have said what you meant about this job taking 3 months. I could have this done in 3 weeks. Call me back."_

Arthur scrolled further back.

" _Darling, I'm picking up sashimi for lunch, so I hope you brought a baloney sandwich because otherwise you'll be forced to try it. Wouldn't that be just the worst?"_

Another.

" _Arthur, darling, Dom is pacing again, and he's drawn no less than three incomprehensible diagrams. Please come get him under control. He's driving all of us spare— "_

And another.

" _Hello, darling. You'll never guess where I'm standing right—"_

And another.

" _Arthur, darling— "_

" _Darling, —"_

" _Darling, —"_

" _Arthur, my lovely, —"_

Eames reached and hand over and stopped Arthur's scrolling, his large hand resting quietly over Arthur's. Arthur couldn't bring himself to look up, to see Eames' discomfort at the evidence that Arthur had, in fact, had to get a new plan and extra storage space for voicemails going back  _years._

"Is this it?" Eames asked, still looking at where their hands rested over Arthur's phone. "The reason you didn't want me to get into your phone?"

Arthur cleared his throat and let his silence answer for him. He shifted.

"How many are there?" Eames asked, not quite holding Arthur's hand.

"All of them."

Eames looked at him then. He seemed surprised, and a little thrown by Arthur's confession, and Arthur could feel his stupid ears heating up. He held Eames' gaze anyway and Eames didn't seem to know what to say. There was irony in that and Arthur would smirk about it later, but for now, he just waited.

"That's," Eames started, sounding a little strangled, "that's a lot of voicemails. I leave them all the time."

Arthur shrugged one shoulder and looked away.

"I mean, the only reason I left some of them is that I assumed you only listened to half of them anyway, so I was trying to increase my odds," Eames laughed, but Arthur couldn't.

"No," he said, and maybe he shouldn't have shown Eames after all. "Look, Eames—"

"Arthur," Eames said, putting a hand on his arm to pull him closer. Arthur looked up to see Eames' eyes warm and fond, soft crinkles at the corners. "I just mean, you deserve much better voicemails."

Arthur's lips twitched in a smile at the relief he felt. "Yeah? Better how?"

"Oh," Eames said, his grin slipping into a leer, "I can think of a few things I'd like to say to you."

Arthur's breath sped up. "Such as?" He leaned in closer to Eames, eyes on those lips, desperate to see where this went, and the watch on his wrist lit with a soft green glow and a " _beepbeep, beepbeep."_  Midnight.

"Such as, 'Merry Christmas, darling,'" Eames said, and he pressed a kiss to Arthur's lips.

And that's Arthur's favorite Christmas memory.


End file.
